


Animal Spirits

by MildredMost



Category: Psmith - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Boarding School, Bullying, Caning, Corporal Punishment, Cricket, M/M, Mutual Pining, Picnics, Pining, Revenge, Sex Pollen, Whump, Yuleporn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-10 13:49:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12913212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MildredMost/pseuds/MildredMost
Summary: With a match against the Eton first eleven looming, Psmith is behaving strangely, and Mike wants to get to the bottom of it.“That’s new,” Fossington said to Psmith, indicating the monocle.“I didn’t think it was possible for you to get more affected Smith,” Carter sneered.“It’s Psmith,” said Mike, detecting the dropped ‘P’. “Are you hard of hearing or just stupid?”“Always the man with the pertinent question, Comrade Jackson,” Psmith said mildly, taking a sip of his tea.





	Animal Spirits

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aurilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurilly/gifts).



> I must apologise for all the cricket in this fic. It was unavoidable.
> 
> (Thanks to Prinzenhasserin for the beta!)

“Well, if that isn’t just the giddy limit,” Mike said, throwing a letter from his father onto the study desk.

Psmith arched an enquiring brow from his recumbent position in the arm chair.

“Outwood’s made me a _prefect_ ,” Mike said with disgust. “Because of being in the first eleven. And he’s written and told father about it so I can’t get out of it.”

“These are dark days indeed, Comrade Jackson. The offer was also extended to me,” Psmith said, stretching.

“Oh then, that’s not so bad,” Mike said. It would be rather a rag being a prefect with Psmith.

“With deepest regret, I turned him down,” Psmith continued. “I told dear Comrade Outwood that it didn’t fit with my idea of Sedleigh as a non-hierarchical thingummy of free association, and besides which, I did not trust the rush of power to the head that a prefect’s badge might induce in me.” He sighed. “Beneath my tranquil exterior beats the heart of a perfect tyrant.”

“By Jove I wish I’d thought of all that,” Mike said. “Father has a bee in his bonnet about it now. Says if I don’t take them up on it, then no Cambridge.”

Mike and Psmith spoke of Cambridge often. They planned to share rooms there, of course. It seemed to Mike that it would be a perfect idyll of freedom and cricket, and of course, Psmith.

“It was only a matter of time before others saw your value and wrested you from me,” Psmith said sorrowfully. “Chapter 14 - New Boy becomes Pride of the School, Discards his Old Friends. Spare a thought for your socialist beginnings, Comrade Jackson, as you grind the masses down beneath your iron heel. Remember your roots whilst dishing out thrashings to fourth formers, while they quiver with awe and terror.”

“Talk sense,” Mike said, “It’s hardly likely.”

“You must be careful not to become that Firby-Smith character you told me of at Wrykyn,” Psmith continued. “Stamping about whacking the juniors and calling them ‘you frightful kid’.”

“Don’t be an ass,” Mike said cheerfully, and looked out of the window.

It was a sunny afternoon and it occurred to Mike that it might be quite nice to spend it with Psmith at the first eleven net. Turning to suggest this, his elbow dislodged a pile of unwashed tea things which slid off the windowsill and were only saved from destruction by landing on his discarded cricket pads.

“Blast it. My turn to wash up, I know. Now that I’m a prefect I’ll make some frightful kid do it,” he joked.

He waited, half expecting Psmith to launch into his treatise on the Division of Labour. But to his surprise Psmith said nothing at all. In fact, he had gone very quiet.

Mike was not particularly sensitive to moods as a rule, but there was something unsettling about a quiet Psmith. He had been having these pensive moments more often recently, but Mike couldn’t make head nor tail of them.

He decided to leave him to it, and bent to gather up the mess.

“What are your opinions on the fagging system Comrade Jackson?” Psmith said, at last.

“Lot of rot,” Mike said with feeling, having been a resentful and ineffectual fag himself for a time and despised the whole idea. “Why? D’you want one?”

It was not something Mike had given a lot of thought since leaving his last school. There was a system at Sedleigh, but naturally he and Psmith had operated rather outside it.

“Quite the contrary I assure you. It was my brush with the system at Eton that led to me becoming a socialist. But I would not want to deprive you, Comrade Jackson, in your position as prefect.”

“Wouldn’t want some little scug bothering us. We do pretty well for ourselves, don’t we?”

Psmith’s meticulousness in dress extended to the state of their study, and the tea things never went long unwashed. It was rather a comfort, truth be told, having Psmith pottering about making tea and noxious concoctions in a saucepan on his gas ring. Mike couldn’t see why they couldn’t carry on as they were.

“You fagged when you were a junior, didn’t you?” Psmith said.

“A bit. I was rotten at it. Kept breaking tea-cups.”

“Tea-cups are tricky blighters,” Psmith agreed.

Mike tried for a moment to imagine Psmith as an ink-stained fag clearing out someone’s grate, but failed utterly.

“But what about the other duties?” Psmith said. “Some chaps rather enjoy those.”

“I don’t see what was enjoyable about any of it. I’m not too bad at laying fires I suppose,” Mike said. Psmith looked at him again in an odd way, and Mike frowned. It wasn’t often that he bothered trying to decipher Psmith; he just let him go on until he wore himself out. But this seemed...important.

“And the rest of it?”

“The rest of what?” Mike said. There was something in Psmith’s expression that he didn’t like, something that Mike didn’t quite understand. “Look here, can’t we carry on as we have been? Just us two. We can take care of things better than some rotter from the lower fourth, surely.”

“I would like nothing better,” Psmith said.

He smiled at Mike and there was a playful hint of something in the way he did it that made Mike’s heart speed up. He looked away, wondering for a moment if Psmith was making fun. He had worried, at times, that Psmith might notice Mike’s attraction to him. He wasn’t backwards about coming forward with these things usually, but he had never broached the subject with Psmith and wasn’t quite sure why. Some chaps just didn’t go for that sort of thing of course, but Psmith was rather devastating in the looks department - to Mike’s mind at least, when he allowed himself to think about it at all - so it would be odd if there hadn’t been someone or other in his past. But Mike had never quite managed to ask.

“You’ve been exceedingly patient,” Psmith said and Mike’s eyes snapped back to him.

“Patient?” Mike said. “What on earth do you mean?”

“I am aware there are certain expectations between school chums. If Eton taught me anything - which is still a matter for debate - it is that,” Psmith said.

Psmith leant back in his chair and looked at Mike and Mike couldn’t miss his meaning. He swallowed as his gaze travelled the length of Psmith’s body before he forced himself to look away.

Psmith stood then, in one fluid movement, and took a step towards Mike whose heart was thudding. But there was something in Psmith’s eyes which twisted Mike’s stomach in a way he couldn’t quite put words to.

“I don’t know what you’re blathering on about Smith,” he lied. “Come on old chap, let’s have an hour at the nets before supper.”

Psmith looked first bewildered, then relieved, before masking his face with his usual world weary air.

“You give me no rest, Comrade Jackson,” he sighed.

Xxxxx

“Adair wants to play Eton before the end of term,” Mike said.

They were sitting under a tree in the school grounds a few days later, pretending to watch the cricket practice.

Psmith, who had been pondering a cryptic crossword competition in the newspaper for the last half hour, lifted his eyes briefly.

“Oh?” he said.

“By Jove, I wouldn’t mind a try at them,” Mike said, lying back on the grass and flinging his arms above his head. “Is there anyone you can write to, Smith? See if you can swing it?”

“I’m afraid my departure from Eton was rather like Paris leaving Sparta,” Psmith said. “My boats are jolly well burnt.” He lay back and put the newspaper over his eyes.

“In that case, wouldn’t you love to beat them? I would,” Mike said, warming to his subject. “Beating Wrykyn gave quite a stir - my brother Joe even wrote and said he might come up and take a look at us, between test matches, you know. I bet Eton would bite. With you, Adair and I, we’d be in with a fighting chance I’d say. And Barnes is steady enough if he doesn’t funk it.”

Mike spent a little while dissecting the various merits and disadvantages of the Sedleigh first eleven before realising that Psmith had proffered no opinions at all.

This was so unlike him that Mike sat up onto one elbow and lifted the newspaper from his face to check if he was conscious.

Psmith blinked up at him, his lips parting in surprise, his skin dappled in the sunlight filtering through the leaves. Mike’s breath caught and he almost dropped the newspaper back into place. His _eyelashes_ , Mike thought. “Thought you were asleep,” he said abruptly, flinging himself back down on to the grass, as though that might dislodge the image of Psmith’s mouth and startled eyes so close to his own.

“Not asleep, alas. I am tormented by 24 down and probably shall be all my days. So,” Psmith said, sitting back up. “You’re pretty keen on this idea of the Eton first eleven coming here?”

“Gosh yes,” Mike said. “Only think how marvellous it would be to play them on our home ground. It would knock beating Wrykyn into a cocked hat. Not to mention it’d help getting me a place on the team at 'Varsity'.”

“Very good point, my dear comrade,” Psmith said pensively, resting his chin on his knees in a most un-Psmith-like way.

“You do still want to go up to Cambridge, don’t you?” Mike said, seeing his expression.

“It is my only reason to get up in the morning,” said Psmith. “The one thing that keeps my spirits up in this loony bin. I have envisioned our afternoons on the Cam often. I expect you can punt, you have the look of a chap who can. And I shall direct you and share my thoughts on Life as we drift along, like a sort of living metaphor.”

“If you like,” Mike said, thinking of Psmith reclined on the cushions of a punt, sounding forth on whatever was in his head at the time. It was a pleasant image. He imagined a warm afternoon like this one. Perhaps Psmith would have discarded his blazer. The buttons at the neck of his shirt would be undone...wait no, the likelihood of Psmith undoing any buttons was slim. But perhaps they had drifted into a secluded spot, under a willow like this, and perhaps Mike would sit down beside him. And whispering, “It’s so warm, Smith,” he would unfasten…

“Perhaps there is the odd string I could pull,” Psmith was saying. “If you’re sure it’s your heart’s desire?”

Mike dragged his head back to the present. “My desire?” he said, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth. Suddenly aware of certain physical effects of his fantasy, he rolled onto his stomach.

“To play my Etonian comrades,” Psmith said, looking at him quizzically. “Or is there another desire you’d like to tell me about? What is it that makes Comrade Jackson’s blood surge and heart pound? Say on.”

He was wearing that expression again, the one that excited Mike and twisted his heart at the same time. He had released his knees and sat with his legs carelessly apart, his head on one side as he looked at Mike, expectant and wary both at once. A lock of his hair had escaped his careful grooming and fell across his forehead, and Mike bit his lip and looked away.

“The only desire I have, is for another go at that half volley thing you took my wicket with the other day. Beastly hard to hit. Care to give me a try?” 

“All right.” Psmith had that look of relief and disappointment again, but it was better than the beastly way he’d looked before. “But all this extra cricket’s the thin end of the wedge. Remind me later to give you my lecture on the importance of Leisure in a socialist utopia.”

“Jolly good,” said Mike, having only understood half the sentence. “Let’s go.”

 

Xxx

 

The following Saturday morning, Mike and Psmith were in their study eating elevenses. They were dipping bread into an odd, cheesy concoction which Psmith had created in a saucepan and served to Mike with a flourish. Psmith’s strange mood seemed to have passed, and if he even hinted at anything like it, Mike bundled him straight out for a game of cricket. It seemed the only way to keep things on an even keel, even though the resulting freckles Psmith’s pale face caught from all this outdoor living were so attractive that Mike had to indulge in several bouts of tension release after lights-out to cope with it. Psmith himself had spent a quantity of time examining them mournfully in the mirror, murmuring about applying lemon juice.

“I believe the Swiss live on this,” Psmith was saying, “Or do I mean the Dutch?”

Mike had no idea, he was too busy stuffing himself. Saturday lunch was always a misery of cold tongue and stale bread and butter, and they’d been up since six for cricket practice.

There was a knock at the door and a junior popped his head into the study.

“Please, Downing wants to see you,” said the junior to Psmith.

“Tell Comrade Downing that I shall be there presently, after this simple repast has restored my tissues,” Psmith said, kindly.

“He said you’d say that. Now, he said to tell you,” said the Junior. “He’d like to see you, too,” he said to Mike a shade more respectfully, as he spotted the prefect badge.

“Where’s the fire? Don’t see why we should have to go rushing off for no reason,” Mike said.

“All I know is that if you don’t come now then I’ll get a hundred lines and you’ll both get gated,” said the junior, folding his arms.

Mike let out a gusty sigh. It probably wasn’t worth incurring the wrath of the entire Junior school just to stick it to Downing. Especially as he had them for prep later.

“Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy,” Psmith said mournfully, pushing his plate aside.

“I say, can I eat that?” the junior said.

“Have at it, my child,” Psmith said, in the manner of a medieval king bestowing alms.

He and Mike rose to follow Downing’s summons.

Downing sat behind his desk awaiting them. He already looked irritated.

“We have had some news,” he said. “Something very important for the school. I am placing a large degree of trust in you both, even telling you about it.”

“Goodness, sir,” Psmith said, sitting down in Downing’s armchair and crossing his legs, looking for all the world as though he was waiting for the cocktail waiter.

“Get up, Smith,” Downing snapped. Psmith inclined his head in assent and stood back up next to Mike.

“Now Professor Outwood has put your names forward for this matter, though personally I have my doubts,” Downing said.

“Quite right, sir,” Psmith said, nodding wisely. “You have ever had a questioning nature.”

“Given my own way, I would have selected differently, but here we are. I hope you will not let the school down.”

Mike shifted uncomfortably, wishing Downing would get to the blasted point.

“Please don’t keep us in suspense a moment longer, sir,” Psmith said. “I’m on the verge of tears already.”

Downing gave him a withering look.

“Eton,” he said, “has agreed to play us at cricket.”

Mike’s heart leapt with excitement.

“Here, sir?”

“Indeed. Which is why I have called you. You two and Adair are to be the pupils in charge of their visit. Smith, as an old Etonian you will head the welcoming committee, as it were.”

“No,” said Psmith and the way he said it gave Mike a jolt. He glanced at him, but Psmith was looking straight ahead.

“What do you mean, no?” blustered Downing.

“No, thank you,” Psmith said. “Sir,” he added.

“Well, why won’t you, Smith?” Downing demanded.

“I’d rather not say, sir,” said Psmith.

Downing found this maddening. “This is a huge honour for the school and if you had any sense of loyalty at all, which is seems you do not, you would realise that,” he roared.

“Nevertheless, it will not be possible,” Psmith said kindly, as though explaining something to a small child.

Another master would have dismissed Psmith and found a different pupil to fulfil the duty. Not Downing. Once he got an idea in his head he pursued it doggedly and relentlessly, and he certainly was not disposed to give Psmith his own way in the matter.

Thus followed almost an hour of interrogation, of threats, of cajoling. Psmith remained firm but polite throughout; he would not entertain the Eton cricket team in any way other than to play against them. Mike, with no idea why Psmith was so against it, stood with him.

Downing, furious and red in the face, paced the room around them.

“I ought to give you a thrashing, Smith,” he said.

“You are not the first to have thought so, sir,” Psmith said. “But I believe it would hurt you more than it would hurt me. I know your temperament and it is a gentle one. Strenuous debate is much more your wicket.”

“This is your final chance to change your mind or give me a good reason why you are behaving with this incredible impertinence,” Downing said, his gentle temperament little in evidence.

“Sir, you are perhaps not familiar with my family history. It is a painful tale. Let me begin. Several hundred years ago, a Saxon named Smith prattled forth to welcome some visitors to our shores - the Normans as they have come to be known - and had his head whacked off. He has served as a Warning and a Portent to every generation of Smiths who followed. Do not blithely gather unknown travellers to your bosom. Ware the approaching stranger! Which leads us to today and this plan of welcoming…”

“That is _quite enough_ , Smith,” Mr Downing snapped.

“Sir, if he says no, he means it,” Mike said who was beginning to lose his temper with the whole thing. Not only had they lost their elevenses, but the bell had rung for lunch long ago and all this nonsense was eating into their precious free Saturday afternoon.

“Jackson,” Downing said suddenly, a hint of jubilation in his voice. “You’ve been made prefect, have you not?”

“Yes, sir,” said Mike cautiously.

“For prowess at cricket,” Psmith added. Downing reddened but ignored him.

“Then it is your duty to ensure your schoolfellows follow the rules. Starting with Smith.”

Downing slid open his desk drawer and pulled out a cane.

“ _No_ , sir,” Mike said in horror.

“It’s quite alright, Comrade Jackson,” said Psmith, as if offering Mike the last slice of bread and butter at tea.

“I won’t,” said Mike.

“Then perhaps your position as prefect should be bestowed upon another boy,” said Downing, looking delighted at the idea.

Mike opened his mouth to tell him exactly which of Downing’s orifices Mike would be shoving his prefectship into, when he felt a cool hand on his arm.

“Comrade Jackson,” Psmith said. “Think of Cambridge.”

“Hang Cambridge!” Mike began angrily.

“Very well,” said Downing with grim satisfaction. “Then you know what must happen.”

“I cannot allow this, Comrade Jackson,” Psmith said regally.

“But…”

“Punting,” Psmith intoned. “Your cricket blue.”

“Dash it all…”

“I dragged you into this row, Comrade. Excuse me,” Psmith said, taking off his jacket and handing it to Downing as though he were about to perform a magic trick and Downing was his lovely assistant. “And I appreciate your moral support more than I can say. But this delightful chitchat has gone on long enough.”

He strolled over to Downing’s own armchair, rather than the battered settee which was usually used for these purposes, and arranged himself across it.

Mike felt impossibly hot all over. Downing, with the most revolting smirk on his face, handed Mike the cane.

Mike glanced at Psmith and wished he hadn’t. The chair Psmith had chosen faced almost exactly the looking glass propped against the wall of Downing’s room. From his position behind Psmith, Mike could see Psmith’s face all too clearly. And worse, Psmith would be able to see his.

“Get on with it Jackson,” Downing said.

Mike stepped up towards Psmith. He took a breath. Was he truly going to do this? What if he just walked out? Refused? There’d be a row of course, and his father would have things to say, but he wasn’t sure if he cared at all.

“Psmith,” he whispered urgently.

“Jackson!” Downing roared. “Do you plan to disobey me too?”

“I just don’t see what good it’ll do,” Mike tried. “Why can’t Adair and Barnes just do it if Smith doesn’t want to?”

“I have reached my limit, Jackson,” Downing thundered, “of the amount of bare-faced, arrogant cheek I will accept from either of you today. How dare you question me? Now, you will complete Smith’s punishment or…” Downing paused for effect and Mike realised just how much Downing was enjoying himself, “You will both be removed from the cricket team and letters will be sent home explaining exactly why. Any time you would have been playing cricket will instead be spent in your form room, copying out everything Virgil has to say about duty. Which is rather a lot. You will spend so much of your time doing that in fact, that there will seem no particular necessity for either of you to have a private study, and it will be given to someone with more need for it.”

Mike understood then what it meant to feel faint with anger. He gripped the cane until his knuckles were white, just willing himself not to break it across his own knee.

Psmith caught Mike’s eyes in the glass. He gave the tiniest of nods, then dropped his face to his arms. Downing had turned to close a window, and Mike took the opportunity to lay his hand with the briefest of touches on Psmith’s lower back. He only hoped that Psmith knew what he meant by it.

“You frightful kid,” Psmith murmured, and Mike gave a startled laugh.

“If this is all so amusing Jackson, I can always double the number of strokes,” Downing said. “Now stop wasting everyone’s time and get on with it.”

Hating everything, Mike began.

He laid the strokes on as fast and furiously as possible. He’d been on the receiving end often enough to know that this was the least painful way, and anyhow his temper barely allowed him to do it in a more composed manner. He seethed with hatred of Downing, with the idiotic school rules, and with the feelings that this was awakening in him. To have Psmith bent over in front of him in this humiliating way was awful, but almost as bad were the stirrings of want he felt inside.

Psmith was silent and still until the fourth stroke, where he made a small noise and Mike let himself glance up. He had turned his face slightly and Mike could see the flush on his cheeks and felt himself redden in response. He looked down again, but he was so aware of Psmith’s body stretched out in front of him that this was no better. He laid on the fifth stroke and Psmith made a sound again, a soft gasp that sent Mike’s mind reeling. He couldn’t help but wonder if that was what Psmith sounded like when...

No. _Enough_. Mike laid the final stroke across Psmith immediately, then threw down the switch and stormed from the room.

He headed straight for the study. He badly wanted to punch something, but instead thrust his fists into his pockets and glowered out of the window. He heard Psmith come into the room behind him. An odd silence pervaded the room.

“Don’t suppose there’s anything to drink is there?” Mike said, eventually, turning around.

“Ah,” Psmith said sorrowfully. “We have reached Chapter Sixteen I see.”

“You can hardly blame me,” Mike said gruffly.

“Comrade Jackson,” Psmith said, sitting daintily with a small wince on the arm of a chair. “It would devastate me to think that I was the chap leading you astray.”

“You’re not.” Mike’s mind flicked back to the gasp Psmith had made when Mike had hit him, and clenched his fists even tighter. He turned back to the window to hide his flaming face. He felt Psmith come to stand behind him, laying a hand on his shoulder.

“If there’s anything I can do, dear comrade...”

Mike thought he might weep. He couldn’t look at his friend in case he was wearing that expression; the one which invited him to take comfort in any way he liked. The expression which warily expected Mike to do just that, while Psmith tolerated it. And Mike was afraid at that moment that he might just weaken and actually do it.

He tried to think of something that would be the opposite of anything Psmith expected.

“Joe sent me a pound in his last letter. Let’s go into the village and spend it and have a sort of picnic in the woods. My treat.”

He finally allowed himself to turn and look at Psmith and caught him looking unguardedly delighted.

“A sound idea Comrade Jackson. Being agin the government doesn’t half make a chap ravenous.”

An hour later and they were doing just that. Psmith had perked up instantly at the thought of an outing and had directed Mike in minute detail as to the purchases to be made, what should be gathered and packed, and which route they should take. Mike happily carried out his instructions to the letter.

Now Psmith was stretched out elegantly under a willow tree by the brook, having gone as far as removing his jacket and hanging it on a branch. Mike, groaning with cream cake, was lying on his back beside him.

“This is the life, Comrade Jackson. This is what the poets bang on about. Tinkling brooks and clods and pebbles chit-chatting and all that rot. I think I shall philosophise for a while, but please don’t feel you must sit up attentively. Stay just as you are; I find the nobility of your profile inspiring.”

Mike did as he was instructed, half listening to Psmith’s soliloquy on natural philosophy, feeling the warm sun soak into his skin. He almost dropped off, but his thoughts kept straying back to the scene in Downing’s office.

“Smith,” Mike said after a while. “I hope you know I’m sorry.”

Psmith waved him away. “Couldn’t be helped. Don’t think of it at all, it’s bad for the acids.”

“Downing’s bad for my acids,” Mike said, darkly.

“Comrade Jellicoe gives me to understand that there is a vacant position at Eton which Comrade Downing has his beady little eye upon,” Psmith said. “I expect that’s why he was particularly aerated about the topic. He’ll be desperate to impress.”

“If Downing tries that again, I won’t do it, Cambridge or no Cambridge,” Mike said.

“Water under the bridge,” Psmith said. “Though I’m glad we won’t be making a habit of it. At Eton my comrades often disagreed with me with similar consequences, and it got a little wearing.”

“Consequences?” Mike said.

“You know. If I declined to take part in rags, or if I was not in the mood for particular study duties. Especially those which wrinkled the knees of my trousers…Ah,” said Psmith slowly, as though realising something. “Am I to take it that at Wrykyn there were no such consequences between school fellows?”

Mike scrambled to keep up with the conversation. “Look here, what do you mean? Were you beaten, Smith?” he demanded, sitting up.

“You pain me to suggest such a thing Comrade Jackson,” Psmith said, not looking at Mike. “You make me writhe. My comrades merely displayed animal spirits.”

“Don’t rot,” said Mike. “Tell me. Is that why you won’t have anything to do with the visit?”

“My dear Comrade, please do not spare another thought for this matter. It couldn’t matter less. _There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so_ ,” Psmith said. “William Shakespeare, born 1564, died 1616.”

Mike knew he wouldn’t get anything else out of him. Psmith’s mention of study duties which involved kneeling tugged at his mind and unsettled him. Hang it all, he wanted to round up anyone who’d wronged Psmith and smash their faces in.

“I wish the dickens I’d been at Eton with you, that’s all,” he said helplessly, lying back in the sunshine again.

“The loss was mine,” Psmith said in his most charming manner. When Mike sneaked a look at him moments later, he was staring sombrely into the blue sky.

 

Xxxx

 

As the Eton match approached, Psmith became a little jumpy. Though Psmith’s jumpy was most people’s cool and collected, Mike could tell. His odd moods came with more frequency, too. He seemed to want something from Mike, a reassurance of sorts, which Mike couldn’t give him. Not the way Psmith seemed to want it, anyhow. It was beyond Mike to know what to do about any of it.

All he knew, was that he planned to beat Eton as thoroughly as his capabilities allowed.

The first day of the Eton visit, the heavens opened and the match was rained off entirely. Adair and Barnes hadn’t planned for this at all, and the teams found themselves milling around in the changing rooms at rather a loose end.

Mike eyed the opposition. To his mind, none of them gave off much of an aura of sportsmanship, not like Adair did. He looked for Psmith to ask him if he knew any of the fellows on the team and found that he had withdrawn to a corner of the changing room alone. Mike went over and sat beside him.

“Everything alright old chap?” he said.

Psmith nodded, but before Mike could question him further, a couple of the boys broke away and came over to them.

“Smith, I’d forgotten you’d ended up here,” said one. He had fair hair and a chin that could crack walnuts. “Rather a come down, isn’t it?”

Mike, whose sentiments had been similar only a term ago, bristled. He hated this boy on sight, and didn’t think much of his sidekick either.

Psmith gave the impression of not having heard him at all.

“Your pitch doesn’t look up to much, rain or no rain,” the boy continued.

“Sorry you’re having to pig it by coming here,” Mike said, a dangerous edge in his voice. “I know some chaps have a dickens of a time playing decently on a pitch that isn’t perfect. Lucky for us most of our team are good enough to be adaptable.”

“Oh, it’ll take a bit more than a shoddy pitch for us not to wipe the floor with you,” the boy said. “Don’t worry your head about that.”

They strolled back to their school mates.

“Who are those blighters?” Mike said.

“The chap with the chin is Fossington, the team captain. The other is Carter, his bosom companion,” Psmith said.

“No, I mean who are they to you?”

Psmith paused for a moment.

“There is a history there, as you correctly detect, Comrade Jackson. When I decided it was best that Eton and I part ways, I may have ragged them a little before I departed. A parting gift, if you will. I will tell you of it one day, on a cold winter’s night when our pipes are lit and our armchairs are drawn up close to the fire, but it is not a tale for the fainthearted and it is not a tale for today.”

“If _you_ ragged them, they’d know about it,” Mike said.

“It would take a great deal,” Psmith said, a gentle smile on his lips, “For them to forget about the goat at least.”

The bell rang for tea. Mike and Psmith bolted towards the pavilion as quickly as they could to avoid being given any welcoming party duties.

Fossington and Carter sauntered into the pavilion, bringing with them an air of beastliness. No one greeted them, not even the other Etonians. Carter muttered something in Fossington’s ear and they made their way towards Psmith and Mike who were standing by the tea urn.

Mike realised then that none of the school masters were in the pavilion at all. He recognised the air of menace from Psmith’s old schoolmates, and prepared to repel boarders. Psmith merely extracted his eye glass from a pocket and fitted it to his eye. His expression was nonchalant but Mike felt him draw a little nearer and felt furious that something in these boys was intimidating Psmith. It couldn’t be borne.

Carter jostled Psmith’s elbow, sending tea sloshing into his saucer. Mike felt his hands ball into fists.

“That’s new,” Fossington said to Psmith, indicating the monocle.

“I didn’t think it was possible for you to get more affected, Smith,” Carter sneered.

“It’s Psmith,” said Mike, detecting the dropped ‘P’. “Are you hard of hearing or just stupid?”

“Always the man with the pertinent question, Comrade Jackson,” Psmith said mildly, taking a sip of his tea.

“Beastly cheek,” Carter said, and reached out and tugged the monocle from Psmith’s eye. He swung it mockingly before Psmith’s face like a hypnotist with a pocket watch.

That was when Mike lost his head. Grasping the dangling end of the monocle cord he twisted it around Carter’s throat like a garrotte. Fossington attempted to intervene, but earned himself a headbutt which connected so beautifully that the crack of his nose elicited a collective gasp from the crowd. Carter, purple and half choked, fell to his hands and knees and scrabbled out of the pavilion, Mike kicking him casually in the backside as he went. He was followed by a blood-drenched Fossington and uproarious cheering from everyone else, Sedleighans and Etonians alike.

Mike took a couple of breaths and wondered why Psmith had not been getting stuck in, too. He turned to see him staring into his half-full teacup.

In the bottom of the cup was a strange, drenched flower with vivid purple petals.

“I say...” Mike began. Psmith looked at Mike and his expression gave Mike a rush of heat all over. Psmith bit down hard on his lip and Mike felt as though he was seeing something intensely private, but he couldn’t look away.

“Comrade Jackson, I believe my old Etonian comrades have been up to hijinks,” he said, and only someone who knew him as well as Mike did would have heard the tremble in his voice.

“Dash it all; is it poison?” said Mike, but Psmith wasn’t listening.

“Oldest trick in the book,” he was saying. “Distraction.”

“You really don’t look…” Mike began to say ‘well’ but that was not true at all. Mike watched as Psmith’s eyes darkened and his colour heightened. He looked exceedingly well; Mike couldn’t take his eyes off him. “...yourself,” he finished lamely.

“I think I shall retire alone, perhaps to a sylvan glade nearby where a person can...”

“Rot. You need to lie down and anyhow it’s pouring,” Mike said and put his hand on Psmith’s arm. Psmith made a small sound, pulling his arm from Mike’s grasp. He looked for all the world on the edge of a faint.

“Should I fetch matron?”

“No need,” Psmith managed. “I will decamp to our study. But I must insist on going alone.”

He was shaking visibly now and Mike reached out to take his teacup from him. As he did, his fingers brushed Psmith’s and Psmith stepped back and moaned quietly as if in pain.

“You’re beastly ill and I’m not letting you go anywhere alone, so stow it,” Mike said.

Psmith closed his eyes briefly, then nodded. “Very well, Comrade Jackson.”

Mike got Psmith out of the pavilion, through the rain, and up to their study as quickly as he could without actually carrying him. Psmith clutched his teacup all the way there. Mike locked the door and turned to Psmith.

“If you could make a long arm and swing the window ajar,” Psmith said. “I’m afraid I’m feeling the heat rather.” Mike, who was shivering after the soaking they’d got crossing from the pavilion to the school building, wondered how he could be.

Psmith was attempting to remove his jacket but between his shaking hands and the exactness of the tailoring, he struggled. Mike got behind him and gave the jacket a tug. Discarding that, he moved around to face Psmith who was now attempting his shirt buttons.

Mike made short work of them, and pushed the shirt back over Psmith’s shoulders, his hands grazing Psmith’s skin. Though his clothes were damp, he was burning hot to the touch, and his eyes had a wild look in them which unsettled Mike in the best way possible. He couldn’t let himself think about it. He couldn’t quite tell if Psmith even wanted him there or not; and had an idea that Psmith wasn’t sure himself. But there was something very, very wrong going on and Mike wanted to make it right.

“Um. I...” Psmith said, looking over Mike’s head. Mike tried not to look at Psmith’s chest, but he could see the pulse beating in his throat and bit his lip hard to try and stem the rush of desire he felt. Not the time. “You really shouldn’t...”

“You’re too dashed hot, that’s all,” said Mike who didn’t like the quiet desperation in Psmith’s voice and was resorting to heartiness as an antidote. “Here, take off those flannels, a chap can’t breathe in those.”

Psmith tried twice to unfasten the buttons at his waist but his fingers were made clumsy by whatever was making him flush pink in that distracting way. Without thinking, Mike reached out to help him. His fingers only brushed against the waistband of Psmith’s trousers when Psmith gave a helpless moan, arching towards him. Mike let out a surprised sound and put an arm around Psmith’s waist to steady him. Psmith pushed himself against Mike’s thigh, once, twice, then shuddered.

“Excuse me,” said Psmith and tried to turn away. He sounded closer to tears than Mike had ever heard him and this was all wrong.

“Psmith, what is all this?” Mike said. “What was that flower? Can’t you tell me?”

He kept his arm around Psmith’s waist and put his other hand on Psmith’s shoulder. Psmith leant against him, trembling.

“It’s an old trick,” he told Mike. “The pollen of that flower leads a person to become...inflamed. And sadly putting it in hot water doubles its strength. I have been thoroughly dosed.”

And he was thoroughly inflamed, Mike could tell.

“But, why? Just for beastliness sake?”

“Family tradition. It may surprise you to know that I haven't always had this impressive athletic physique,” Psmith said. “I was rather a weed in my early school days. So when I first fagged for Fossington’s older brother, he divested me rather easily of my virtue. But I grew, and I got handy with the dressing-gown cord and so other means were required.”

“But that’s...you mean the flower? And now _this_ Fossington…”

“My dear comrades used to give it to me regularly. It amused them terribly. Fossington’s father grows them in his hot house.”

Mike felt a rush of rage. Several things were falling into place in his head at once and cursed himself for being too thick to have realised them earlier.

“If I’d known, he’d have more than a broken nose,” Mike said. “He’d be carrying his teeth home in his teacup. If he could walk.”

Threatening violence against them didn’t seem like enough. Not nearly enough. Mike wanted to tear them limb from limb. He forced himself back to the matter in hand. Psmith was still flushed and trembling and getting warmer by the minute.

“How long till it stops?”

“It is not a matter of time I am afraid, Comrade Jackson. It is necessary to purge it from my system.”

“What if you don’t?”

“I grow thinner and thinner,” Psmith said. Mike looked at him. “Sick. For days. Fever and chills and hollow eyes and a strong necessity for steam kettles and mustard plasters. I shall clutch at you with wasted limbs and mutter deliriously. “Tell mother her Rupert was brave to the end,” I shall gasp.”

“That sounds jolly inconvenient,” said Mike, while realising that this was what Carter and Fossington had hoped. That the cricket team would be a good man down because Psmith would be either incapacitated or shunned for his behaviour. Well, they could shove it.

“How many times do you need to...?” Mike said.

“I cannot tell,” said Psmith, mournfully. “I am cursed with acute virility.”

Mike indicated Psmith’s trousers. “That’s one lot down at any rate,” he said practically. “Can’t you…” Mike made a rather lewd gesture. “I can leave you to…”

“Doesn’t work,” Psmith said, closing his eyes. “Though I have, on occasion, been made to try.”

Mike felt more rage surge through him at that.

“I quite understand if you’d rather exit stage left. I can always...Edmund the boot boy is apparently very accommodating.”

Mike found himself violently opposed to that idea.

“You’ll jolly well stay here and let a chap give you a hand,” he said gruffly.

“A hand will take care of things perfectly,” Psmith conceded.

“Well,” said Mike, going red. “There are other things of course, if you like. It’s not my first innings with this sort of thing - I don’t mind.”

Psmith swallowed and nodded, and Mike watched the movement of his throat. Psmith seemed so embarrassed and miserable. It certainly wasn’t the way Mike had ever imagined things happening and he’d really rather not do anything if Psmith was going to feel wretched. But it seemed he would feel wretched either way. He wondered if it would make things better to confess that he’d thought about this rather a lot, or if it would seem like taking advantage. He stared at his friend, frozen with indecision.

In the end Psmith made the first move. He seemed to fight a small internal battle with himself, before closing his eyes briefly and getting to his knees in front of Mike.

He ran his hands up Mike’s thighs, and for a moment Mike thought his heart was going to stop. Psmith was kneeling, looking up at him with his dark eyes, his face flushed and lips reddened. It was, it was…

His head cleared.

“Look here,” he said, stopping Psmith’s hands. “Not that it wouldn’t be jolly nice, but...what the dickens are you doing?”

Psmith blinked up at him. “I thought you said this wasn’t your first innings at this sort of thing?”

“Well no, but...this, in particular, is no earthly use to you, is it?”

“I suppose not,” Psmith said in confusion. “But don’t you expect...I mean at Eton, I had to...before...”

He paused on catching sight of Mike’s expression. “I believe I may have some social etiquette to unlearn, Comrade Jackson.”

The constant ricochet between arousal and anger was giving Mike a headache. He pulled Psmith to his feet.

“You don’t have to please me first,” Mike said, trying not to rage at _him_ at least. “Or at all, if you don’t want. It’s quite alright. It’s you that’s in a dashed state, and I’d be some kind of blighter if I didn’t try to help.”

Psmith leant against the desk. “My dear Comrade,” he said, and the trembling had intensified now. “I don’t think I can expect you to do this.”

Mike realised some of the cause of Psmith’s wretchedness at last. Of course the poor chap was under the impression that Mike _hadn’t_ been thinking about what this might be like for the past six months. He could see where the misunderstanding had occurred.

“But I want to,” Mike said earnestly. “I mean to say,” he said, blundering onwards. “That even if you weren’t…” he gestured vaguely. “I’d quite happily…” he trailed to a stop. Psmith watched him. Mike tried again. “You’re dashed attractive, Smith, you know.”

“You are rather a dish yourself, Comrade Jackson,” Psmith said faintly, in the way someone might if they’d rather recently been cracked on the skull with a cricket bat. “But…”

“Look here,” Mike began, trying to think of something he could say to make Psmith see sense and stop being so dashed noble. Then he had a better idea. He grabbed the teacup that Psmith had so carefully carried up to their study, and drank every drop left in it.

Psmith stared at him in horror.

“Now you needn’t feel…” Mike stopped as the contents of the tea hit his bloodstream like an express train. Every muscle in his body felt weak with lust. He couldn’t believe the iron restraint Psmith must be exerting over himself.

Mike wasn’t even going to try. He took a step towards Psmith, who let go of the desk and stood up. They stared at each other and Psmith took a breath.

Mike launched himself forward and kissed him. He hadn’t expected to do that - he’d never gone in for kissing much as a rule - but Psmith wanted kissing, thoroughly. Psmith made a shocked sound but held him tightly and Mike kissed him again, clumsy but desperate, wanting Psmith’s mouth open, wanting to suck and lick. Everything about Psmith was bright and vivid and making him wild with sensation; everything familiar was new and thrilling. The feel of Psmith’s smooth warm skin, the taste of sweet tea on his tongue, the smell of rain in his hair, and the small gasps he was making. That they were both making. Mike rubbed and arched against him, searching for any kind of friction to relieve the heat that surged through him. Psmith collided with the desk and Mike half lifted him onto it, getting between his legs to rut against him anywhere he could. He was half delirious by now, barely realising what he was doing, and it took him almost by surprise when he came, his cock pushed hard against Psmith’s thigh.

It wasn’t enough; not _nearly_ enough.

His head clearing for a moment, he took hold of Psmith’s waistband and dragged his trousers open and then off entirely. Psmith gave a strangled yelp but Mike silenced him by pushing him firmly back against the desk and dropping to his own knees. Working fast he put his mouth to the tip of Psmith’s cock and licked him. He could taste Psmith’s spend from before, salt and musk, and it only excited him more as he licked him again. Psmith panted once, twice, and then made a warning sound and Mike took his mouth away just as Psmith shot for the second time all over his own stomach.

“Rather a hair trigger you have there,” Mike remarked to the panting Psmith.

“Under normal circumstances I have the endurance of Atlas himself,” Psmith said breathlessly. “But I must say you do know what you’re about. I...oh!”

Mike had bent his head to his task again, licking Psmith’s still-erect cock clean before sucking it into his mouth. The flower seemed to have taken any inhibitions about what excited Mike and he’d never done anything like this before, but he wanted everything about it; the messiness, the taste, the hot silky feel of it. And Psmith had found his voice. As he sucked and licked and revelled in the slide of Psmith’s cock into his mouth, Mike found himself treated to a lengthy, breathless monologue on something he didn’t quite understand about Achilles and Patroclus - having been ragging in that particular lesson - and then onto the particulars of Mike and how his mouth felt and how his hands felt and how Mike looked kneeling between his legs and...

Mike took his mouth away. “Don’t jaw at a chap so, Smith,” he said. “T’isn’t as though I can answer you.”

Psmith opened his mouth to say something else, because of course he did. Mike experimentally swallowed down as much of Psmith as he could, to see if it shut him up.

It made him wordless at least.

And it was proving rather fun to keep him that way. Mike was taking it slowly, as he presumed Psmith was feeling a touch sensitive by now, but every time Psmith gathered himself together enough to begin a sentence, Mike would plunge his mouth downwards, keeping eye contact with his friend, and Psmith would dissolve into moans again. Psmith was close again, he could taste it, and he had long fingers tangled in Mike’s hair, tugging almost painfully. Mike moaned and urged Psmith forward, deeper, swallowing around him. He had undone his own trousers and was stroking himself to no avail, bucking helplessly into a hand that gave him no sensation at all.

“Going to finish,” Psmith gasped. He tried to lean away but Mike only sucked harder, and was rewarded by the jump and pulse of Psmith’s cock in his mouth as he spent. Mike swallowed and sucked his way off slowly, his own cock so hot and hard that he felt that he’d die if Psmith didn’t touch him.

“Please,” he said, looking up Psmith, voice hoarse and full of want. “I need…” _Anything, anything._

Psmith slid off the desk and onto his knees in front of Mike. They both tore at his clothes, throwing them aside in a sodden heap. Mike looked in wonder as Psmith wrapped his hand around the base of Mike’s cock, and sucked the head into his mouth.

Mike had wanted Psmith’s mouth on him more than anything and now it was happening all he could do was moan. He sat back, spreading his legs, his cock thrusting up obscenely hard, thinking of all the times he’d looked at Psmith’s lips, all the times he’d watched his mouth as he was speaking, seen him give his rare smile. And now that mouth was licking and sucking him, wet and messy and so, so good.

Mike let out a groan and let his head drop back. He wasn’t going to last a minute but he couldn’t have stopped his body responding if he wanted to. He didn’t know if it was the flower or if it was Psmith, but he felt drenched in feeling. Sex till now had been a functional sort of thing - a willing hand or body, helping each other out - but this was beyond that in every way imaginable. He could hear himself whimpering and a tiny part of him felt as though he should be embarrassed, but the rest of him wanted to sob and beg for more, so he settled for holding onto Psmith’s shoulders and letting himself feel every sensation of his willing mouth, until he came so hard he felt faint.

When he opened his eyes again, Psmith was drawing his mouth up and off his cock - and if that wasn’t an image to be banked for later use, he didn’t know what was - and was watching his face.

Mike wanted to say something, to express what this meant to him, and to tell Psmith that he needn’t worry, that this was everything he’d wanted and it was perfect. But though he might be drugged and more aroused than he’d ever been in his life, he was still himself and of course couldn’t say anything at all.

Instead he pulled Psmith down beside him, and they lay on the rug, Mike arranging him so that they were face to face and he could kiss him satisfactorily while his hands roamed over Psmith’s rather delightful body. He wanted to spend some time exploring what excited Psmith, to see if he could make him gasp, but the flower was relentless and all either of them were able to do was search for release. They rocked against each other, touching, kissing, Mike arching against Psmith as he slid his warm hands over the skin of Mike’s back and arse. Mike got a hand between them, pressing their cocks together and the sensation sent sparks through his body. Psmith was half delirious, not managing more than “Please,” and “yes,” and “faster,” all whimpered against Mike’s neck.

“Close,” he was saying now, and Mike got his mouth to his neck, sucking a mark there as Psmith bucked against him. He held their cocks together tightly, grabbing one of Psmith’s hands and wrapping it around them too.

“Now,” he said, feeling his orgasm build. “ _Yes_ , Psmith, _now_...”

And Psmith came just as Mike finished himself, head dipped into the hollow of Mike’s collar bone, the most glorious stream of filthy words coming from him as he did.

“If all that is to say that you liked it, then, good,” Mike said, nuzzling at Psmith until he brought his mouth back to Mike’s. “I’d much rather you liked it than not.”

“Previous suitors would take the precaution of muffling me,” Psmith said between kisses.

The thought of wanting to silence Psmith seemed to Mike so deeply wrong and unkind, almost worse than all the rest of it. “But I like all your jawing, you silly ass,” he said eventually. Psmith laughed against his mouth.

“That’s four,” Mike said, who couldn’t help but keep score. “Does it feel…”

“The same,” Psmith said.

There was a way of intensifying things, Mike knew. He’d discovered it by accident tumbling about with another boy once. He expected Psmith was constructed more or less the same way, though with better materials.

He kissed Psmith just beneath the jaw, just because he could, and relished the soft sound he made. “I’m going to try something, old chap. I’ll have to roll you around rather.”

“I am entirely at your mercy, Comrade Jackson,” Psmith said breathlessly.

Mike rolled Psmith gently onto his back.

At first it seemed that they wouldn’t work it out. Psmith’s long limbs were everywhere, and even once Mike had managed to position his legs, he couldn’t seem to get inside him, even with the petroleum jelly he’d fetched. Mike would have thrown in the towel entirely if Psmith hadn’t still looked feverish and his cock hadn’t still been rigid and dark with arousal. But it was all starting to feel awkward and awful and Mike began to think that Edmund the boot boy would perhaps have been a better bet, or more experienced at least. But Mike looked up and caught Psmith’s eye, and Psmith laughed a little and that laugh told Mike that Psmith did want him there, that he didn’t mind that it was him. Mike relaxed and smiled, and it was _them_ again.

And Mike wanted Psmith to enjoy it. So in the same way that Mike focussed intently on Psmith when he bowled, looking for tells, he concentrated on Psmith’s body now. Every sigh and gasp he elicited was recorded; every sensitive patch of skin memorised. He wanted to be inside him so badly, he felt crazed with the thought, but it had to be right.

He stroked Psmith’s entrance, sliding a finger inside him, and Psmith arched up, moaning. He slid it in and out and…yes, that was the spot. Psmith cried out “Oh, _oh_ ,” and grabbed Mike’s shoulders, pushing back onto the finger as hard as he could.

Mike hitched Psmith’s long legs over his shoulders and pushed another finger in gently, rocking back and forth a little before sliding a little further inside. Psmith gasped and clenched around him, begging “Please, please...”. Mike took his fingers away and pressed his cock against his entrance, even as he slid the head of his cock inside, Psmith started to come.

He’d never felt another person’s orgasm so intensely. Mike’s every sense caught alight with the feeling of being so surrounded by him; the tightness of him around his cock and the incredible, helpless sounds he was making, and the muscles of his stomach and chest taut as he tried to push back as hard against Mike as Mike was pushing into him.

Mike couldn’t last. He buried himself fully in Psmith and Psmith reached up and kissed him wildly as he did, and, oh, the feeling of that. He barely thrust into him half a dozen times before his climax ripped through him again, making him shake. He wanted to stay inside Psmith forever in that moment, Psmith’s tongue in his mouth and long legs wrapped around him, his hand gripping the back of Mike’s neck.

He recovered a little, picking up one of Psmith’s hands and kissing the palm. “More?” he said.

“You don’t have to,” Psmith began, his eyes dark with want. “You’ve already gone above and beyond…”

“Don’t be an ass,” said Mike, beginning to move inside him again. “You’ve got me out of a jolly tight hole in the past. And now it’s my turn to…”

“Do not make the joke you are planning to my dear Comrade, it is beneath you,” Psmith said.

“Not the only thing that is,” Mike said, and grinned, picking up his pace.

“I will allow you that one, under the circumstances,” Psmith gasped. “Though these puns cut me to the quick. I...ohhh.”

Mike had discovered that he could hit the spot that was sending Psmith wild with much more accuracy if he leant forward a little, and it gave the added advantage of making him able to watch Psmith’s face in great detail. He rocked into Psmith a little deeper and Psmith locked his eyes on Mike’s and his expression was so much more than Mike had ever dreamed of. His pupils were blown wide, lips red and bitten and wet. The cricket-induced freckles were dusted over cheeks flushed pink with arousal, and Mike could see the flush deepening as Psmith’s mouth fell open and his eyes closed, and his body trembled. He went rigid and came for the fifth time, rocking against Mike before collapsing back onto the rug. Mike sat back, pulling out of him gently.

Then he hitched Psmith’s legs back over his shoulders and prepared to begin again.

“No more,” gasped Psmith. “Not yet.”

Mike could never have imagined him like this; panting beneath him with one arm thrown across his eyes, drenched in sweat and come, desperate. And he wanted to let him stop but Psmith’s cock was still hard and flat against his stomach and Mike was not going to be defeated.

“One more,” said Mike firmly. “One more, old chap, I think.”

“A minute,” Psmith begged, but Mike didn’t have a minute to give him. They’d already missed supper and lights out was on the horizon. They could be discovered at any moment.

“We can’t wait,” he said, leaning forward to kiss Psmith gently.

Psmith’s eyes darkened at the firmness of Mike’s tone. He kissed back harder and hooked a leg around Mike’s back. Mike eased himself back in, watching Psmith’s face intently for any sign of pain. But Psmith only closed his eyes and threw his head back, pushing hard against Mike.

It was as though the poison of the flower was intensifying as it wore itself out. Every touch felt amplified, his skin felt as though it was charged with electricity. Stilling for a moment, he stroked his hands over Psmith’s chest, revelling in the feel of his smooth skin, the dark nipples which hardened at his touch, and his cock standing hard against his stomach. Psmith made small, desperate sounds at every touch, his eyes coming open as Mike slid in and then out as slowly as possible.

“Need it faster,” he managed. “Hard as you can. _Please_.”

Mike’s vision blurred. He couldn’t pace himself any longer; he could barely think beyond the fact that Psmith wanted it hard and fast, had begged him for it. Psmith was touching him everywhere; tangling hands in his hair, running hands down his back, grabbing his thighs. “Don’t stop,” he was saying, “Don’t stop, don’t…” and Mike couldn’t have if he tried. In fact he was about all out and he knew it. He might’ve made it a little longer if Psmith hadn’t been arching underneath him with abandon, dark hair falling in his eyes, making those noises. But he was and Mike got a hand around Psmith’s cock and drove his own in deep and then things became a haze of sensation. “Yes,” he heard himself say, “Yes, yes…” and then Psmith cried out and pushed up with his hips and Mike finished then and there, barely aware of Psmith spilling over his hand as he did so.

He collapsed against him and lay there for a moment, panting into the hollow of Psmith’s throat. He felt Psmith’s hand come to rest in his hair and stroke him and it felt utterly right. Mike felt for Psmith’s other hand, and finding it, slid his fingers between Psmith’s and held on tight.

They lay there, tangled together, listening to the rain batter against the windows, and the sounds of the school going to bed.

Gathering himself a little, Mike wriggled experimentally against his friend and felt that they were both soft at last.

“All gone, old chap?” he said, rolling over and sitting up.

“Quite gone,” said Psmith looking up at him. He looked very young all of a sudden, stripped of his usual armour of perfect tailoring, eyeglass and witty asides. Mike wanted to wrap his arms around him and kiss him on the temple, but kept that particularly soppy thought to himself. The last thing Psmith needed was Mike slobbering all over him like a labrador puppy.

Psmith sat up, wincing a little as he did.

“You’ll hurt like the dickens tomorrow,” Mike said. “Not anywhere important, though.”

“Indeed, my bowling arm remains unscathed,” Psmith said. His hands still shook, though Mike guessed it was more exhaustion than the poison now. He made a long arm for his trousers and found a handkerchief in the pocket. Carefully he cleaned Psmith up as best he could.

Then he got up and draped Psmith’s shirt over his shoulders. “Come on, I’ll take you to the dormitory. It’ll be lights out any second.”

They dressed in silence just as the bell for lights out rang out. Mike couldn’t quite lug Psmith to bed with an arm around his waist like he wanted too, but he kept a hold on his wrist and tugged him firmly along, sensing his weariness. Psmith made no protest as Mike guided him to his bed and pulled his shoes off, before gently shoving him back against the pillows. Psmith was uncharacteristically silent and Mike tried to think of something to say that would make everything alright, but he was exhausted too.

As Mike undressed in the dark, he heard Psmith’s breathing even out, meaning he was asleep. Something clinked in Mike’s pocket as he threw his trousers over the end of the bed. Psmith’s eyeglass. He placed it quietly on the windowsill next to Psmith’s bed so he’d find it in the morning.

Xxxx

Mike slept in the next morning and was only woken by Robinson shying a wet flannel at his head.

“Buck up, Jackson,” he said. “Even Smith’s up before you. Adair says you’ve to be at the practice nets in ten minutes or you sha’n’t play.”

Mike sat up and scrubbed a hand across his face. Blazing sunlight poured in through the skimpy curtains. The match was on.

Psmith rising early was so unheard of that he knew something must be wrong. He’d fixed the poison thing though, hadn’t he? But perhaps he hadn’t fixed how Psmith might be feeling about it all. Mike swore under his breath at his own lack of thought and swung his legs out of bed. Well, he’d just have to sort that out, too. Once they’d destroyed the Eton first eleven of course.

“Tell Adair to cram it,” he said. Then, seeing Robinson’s expression, “Tell him I’ll be there soon.”

There was a little something he wanted to grab from the study first.

Xxxxx

Within a few moments of Mike joining the team in the changing rooms, it became clear that Psmith wasn’t talking to Mike. Not pointedly, but just very carefully keeping a distance, keeping his eyes averted, or becoming fascinated with the fastenings of his pads any time Mike had an opportunity to speak to him.

Mike left him alone. His priority that day, first and foremost, was to embarrass Eton as thoroughly as possible. Once revenge was wreaked and the balance of the universe restored, he would concentrate on mending fences with Psmith. Not that they needed mended on his side; even the slightest memory of the night before filled him with a rush of happiness. But he had to think of the game.

Adair was at his most strained and silent. This match meant a huge amount to him, and his solemn mood was going unleavened by Psmith’s usual asides. The tension mounting, Mike could barely speak to anyone himself until the first step onto the pitch, which as ever drained all his nerves away.

It was a beautiful morning and they were beginning early, with shadows still long on the dewy grass. Mike took a great breath of air to calm himself and a quick look at Psmith to pep himself up. Psmith looked long and lean and cool as a cucumber, and it gave Mike more heart than he could express.

The Etonians strolled out soon after. Even the way they walked at this point filled Mike with wordless anger but he forced it down. Violence wouldn’t have nearly the same effect that his batting would.

And the Etonians were under no illusion that Mike was anything but a formidable batter. Mike’s stony stare would have been intimidating enough without the undercurrent of suppressed rage he managed to exude.

Fossington came up to bowl first, his run up casual and over-confident with a little affected hop that only annoyed Mike more.

Mike hit his ball to the boundary with barely a flick of the bat.

This set the mood for the innings. Any Etonian bowler with a hint of confidence about them soon left the field in a dispirited state, wondering why on earth they’d been selected for the first eleven in the first place. There were several heated discussions between the Eton master and Fossington, and Mike could see Downing’s face, dark with rage at the unwelcoming way Mike was playing. This was an additional grim satisfaction Mike hadn’t counted on.

They filed into the pavilion for lunch, Mike having helped himself to a century and Adair having declared.

Mike lingered by the tea urn and noticed that Fossington and Carter were making a beeline for him. Jolly good.

“Hullo Jackson,” Fossington said. “I’m going to knock you down later.” His nose was purplish and swollen and Mike bit down on the temptation to give it another whack.

“Funny, you didn’t show much interest in doing that yesterday,” he said.

Fossington glared and Carter leaned in towards Mike.

“I’m surprised Smith is on the team at all today,” he said in a low voice.

“Oh?” said Mike.

“The way he behaves I mean,” Carter continued.

“Oh?” said Mike again, allowing a little more ice into his voice.

Downing bustled up to them. “Jackson, do stop hogging the urn. I hope you’ve offered these young chaps some tea,” he said, grinning at the Etonians sycophantically.

“Yes, sir,” Mike said. He turned to pour some tea, making sure to slop a good amount in the saucers. Downing swept off again and Carter began where he’d left off.

“You aren’t trying to tell me Smith didn’t misbehave last night. Everyone knows what he’s like,” Carter persisted.

“And what’s that?” Mike said, his temper rising.

“You know,” Carter said, in an unpleasant, insinuating way. “Filthy.” He took a casual sip of tea.

“Or perhaps you don’t mind that,” Fossington said nastily.

“Well, I hear on good authority that _you_ don’t,” Mike said. He looked across the pavilion to where the umpire was signalling. “Looks like we’re off again.”

Both boys tilted their cups to their mouths. And then looked down into them.

The looks of horror on both their faces as the flower petals surfaced in their tea-cups were almost as satisfying as hitting Fossington’s slow ball. It wouldn’t be such an intense dose as Mike and Psmith had taken yesterday, but Mike reckoned it would be distracting enough to do the job.

“Good luck chaps,” Mike said, and headed back to the changing rooms.

Charged by his success, he decided to tackle his next problem head on. Just as the team were about to return to the field, he sat down and said loudly, “Smith, do give me a hand with the strap on this pad, it keeps coming loose.”

Psmith stopped and looked at him.

“Don’t be long, you chaps,” Adair said. “We start again any minute.”

They were alone. Psmith came over and sat on the bench, eyeing Mike warily, and Mike wanted to put that right at once.

“I say, Smith,” Mike said quietly. “Do you remember last night?”

“As if it were yesterday,” Psmith said.

“Jolly good,” Mike said. “Then…may I?” He leant towards Psmith, and Psmith’s eyes widened. He nodded.

Mike leant forward and put a hand under Psmith’s jaw. He kissed Psmith gently and lingeringly, moving his hand to stroke his hair. Then he sat back. Psmith looked dazed.

“All right?” Mike said.

“I’m not sure that ‘all right’ is entirely adequate,” Psmith said hoarsely. “But if that is what we are using, then yes. All right. Entirely right.”

“Good. Me too. I’ve jolly well wanted to do that for ages, but I thought you might not be keen.”

“You were entirely mistaken Comrade Jackson. I could not be keener.” Psmith smiled, which was a rarity, and Mike felt compelled to kiss him again, so he did.

“Glad we’ve sorted that out,” he said as they broke apart. “Now let’s send Eton home with something to think about.”

“That’s the spirit. I have never been able to resist you when your berserker blood is up, Comrade Jackson,” Psmith said.

“Thought you’d resisted me rather well till now,” Mike laughed.

“I will not be impugned. I tried to lure you wantonly on various occasions and all it ever got me was extra cricket practice,” Psmith said. “It gave me the pip.”

“Yes but…” Mike thought of the awkward, almost frightened way Psmith had offered himself to him and wanted to explain. “That was all wrong. This isn’t.”

That perhaps wasn’t very clear at all, but he felt as though they were sailing into some dashed sentimental territory and now was probably not the moment.

“And anyhow, there was a picnic, too,” he said, taking Psmith’s hand and tugging him to his feet.

“There was,” Psmith agreed. He stood and adjusted his cuffs.

“I believe I saw you chin-wagging with Carter and Fossington at lunch,” he said.

“Just being welcoming,” Mike said.

“And overseeing their refreshments. Did I detect some sleight of hand whilst serving tea to my Etonian comrades?”

“You did.”

“Then,” Psmith said, fixing his eye glass in his eye and smoothing his hair. “This is going to be a rag for the ages. Let us go forth and enjoy.”

xxxx

The effect on the Eton first eleven was catastrophic.

Carter and Fossington were flushed bright red and showing every sign of being agitated even before play began. Adair shook Fossington’s hand to begin, and Fossington turned sharply and doubled over. In concern, Adair put a hand on his shoulder, which only seemed to make things worse. Fossington groaned, then stood up and shook Adair off.

Adair bowled first and acquitted himself well, if unexcitingly. Barnes followed but failed to take a wicket.

Psmith was next up to bowl.

Though Psmith’s batting was something to be reckoned with, it was nothing in comparison to his bowling when on form. And he was on form today.

There was one other thing about Psmith’s bowling that only Mike knew, which was this: Psmith could bowl either hand. He usually bowled left-handed during matches, using his right hand only when he and Mike were alone at the practice nets. But today there was something about the way Psmith removed his eye-glass and tucked it deliberately in his shirt pocket that made Mike think that he was planning something rather different.

He wasn’t wrong.

Psmith took the first two wickets rapidly and almost casually with his patented slow left-hand ball. The crowd, who had been lolling around in a post-lunch haze, sat up and paid attention.

Then Fossington came up to bat and all bets were off.

Even Mike, who had studied Psmith’s bowling in huge detail and thought he knew his every tell, could not predict which hand the next ball would fly from. Fossington, who seemed to have lost all coordination, was clean bowled. The next batsman hit out wildly and skied the ball, which Mike took great pleasure in catching.

The Sedleighans roared their approval.

The tail went to pieces after that, with Psmith picking them off left and right. There were two l-b-ws from sheer panic. Mike had never seen anything like it.

Carter was the last up to bat and was in a similar state to Fossington. Shaky and wild-eyed, he looked at Psmith and gulped.

Mike watched Psmith tilt his head and give Carter a slow, lingering smile that made Mike hot all over. God knows what the effect was like if you were the actual recipient, drugged with an aphrodisiac. Poor Carter didn’t stand a chance. He went bright red and let out a whimper.

Psmith took his wicket with an almost insultingly gentle ball.

It was all over. Adair looked around him with ecstatic wonder on his face. Fossington and Carter could barely wait for handshakes to be exchanged before haring off into a nearby clump of trees. The rest of their team slumped off the pitch towards the cool of the pavilion.

Downing stormed across the pitch to Mike and Psmith.

“Was there any need,” he barked, “to humiliate Eton quite this badly?”

“They humiliated themselves, sir,” Mike said.

“This is just another example of your infernal conceit. Both of you,” Downing said, turning to Psmith too, and warming to his subject. “It is not good enough for you to win by a reasonable margin. Oh no! You must embarrass the other team completely. And you,” he said, jabbing Psmith in the chest. “With your arrogant two-handed bowling. Being a left-hand bowler is enough - more than enough! - to display your prowess. But no, that did not hold enough drama, enough attention for you. You had to…”

He trailed off as one of the Eton masters walked past them, calling for Fossington who had not yet reappeared.

“Professor Brent!” he called. “Do wait!”

Downing left them as abruptly as he had arrived.

“I fear Downing will not be considered now for that vacancy at Eton,” Psmith said. “His presence would prove too much of a reminder of this painful day.”

“Good job, too,” said Mike with satisfaction.

Adair was euphoric. He wandered around in a trance, thumping people on the back and grinning from ear to ear.

Fossington and Carter emerged from the woods nearby, dishevelled and grubby and very decidedly not looking at each other. Carter had a nasty rash of nettle stings on his neck and Fossington had lost a pad.

They approached Mike and Psmith. Mike weighed his cricket bat in his hand and looked at them with his most sullen expression.

“Is it pax now?” Carter said, swallowing and looking at the bat in Mike’s hand.

“If Smith says so,” said Mike, not putting the bat down.

“Smith, is it pax? It was only a rag.”

“Of course, of course,” Psmith said, waving an elegant hand at them. “The remorse you express is too moving, my overwrought sensibilities cannot take another moment of it. No doubt months from now this moment will come flooding back to me in all its poignancy, and I will weep against my mother’s knee as I did when a tiny child. “Our Rupert feels things so deeply,” Mother will explain to the other guests at dinner. “He is a slave to his emotions.””

“Pity you decided to play the fool while there’s a representative from the England team here,” Mike said.

“What?” said Fossington. He blanched.

“He’s rotting,” Carter said, uncertainty on his face.

“They heard about Sedleigh doing well and sent someone to take a look,” Mike said. “He won’t have thought much of your lot today.”

“I say, how do you know?” Fossington said.

“He’s rotting,” Carter said again. “Anyhow, they wouldn’t judge just from one match.” His words were surer than his expression.

“I’m sure you’re right,” Mike said amiably. “You can ask him yourself - here he comes now.”

Fossington and Carter straightened up.

“Hullo,” the representative said.

“Hullo,” Fossington and Carter said.

The representative began to say something to Psmith, but Fossington insinuated himself between them.

“I say sir, I know we didn’t look like much today, but we’re usually much better,” he said. “Do come and watch us again.”

“We’re playing Harrow next weekend, if you’d like to come sir? There’ll be a frightfully good tea,” Carter added.

“Oh Lord no,” the representative said cheerfully. “I’ve seen enough. You were dreadful. Imagine being beaten by a tiny school like Sedleigh.”

“But, but…” Fossington began.

“I mean, your batting, in particular…” the representative shook his head.

“But,” Carter spluttered. “Sedleigh _cheated_! Jackson…”

“What ho, Joe,” Mike said casually.

“What ho, little brother,” the representative said to Mike.

Fossington and Carter’s faces held the expression last seen on the face of the Trojan soldier who first said “that wooden horse is making a dashed strange noise.”

“What was that about cheating?” Joe said to Carter.

But Carter was mute.

“So this is Smith?” Joe said, and Mike nodded. “We’ll be keeping an eye on you,” Joe said to Psmith. “That swerve in your left-hand ball is pure dynamite.”

Psmith moaned gently.

Fossington and Carter lingered, trying to think of something else to say, but could only stare from Joe to Mike and back again.

“Why don’t you chaps toddle off for tea now?” Joe said kindly. “It looks like a decent one. Lift your spirits a bit.”

“But…”

“Don’t let us keep you,” Psmith said politely.

They watched in silence as Fossington and Carter trailed away towards the pavilion. Mike noticed the grass stains all over the back of Carter’s trousers.

“Thanks Joe,” Mike said.

“What for? Told you in my last letter I was coming to watch you. Oh look, there’s Manders-Spillington,” Joe said, indicating an old Sedleighan with an offensive moustache. “He owes me three quid.”

With that he set off, unaware of the devastation he had wreaked.

Mike let out a long, relieved sigh.

“There never is a moment of respite in this abode of wrath,” Psmith remarked, polishing his eye glass with a handkerchief. “No chance for my delicate nerves to make a recovery. This latest rag has undoubtedly etched a new line on my alabaster brow.”

Mike shot him a look and caught Psmith looking back. Mike grinned at him and Psmith fumbled the eyeglass. Mike, his fielding reflexes still primed from the match, caught it before it hit the ground.

He stepped forward and gently fixed it back into Psmith’s eye. Psmith swallowed. Mike stepped back again and marvelled at how cool and elegant Psmith looked in his cricket whites, even after a frantic match on a hot afternoon. And pondered on how he’d like to dishevel him a little.

“Everyone’s in the pavilion, even Outwood,” he said.

“Nothing escapes your notice, Comrade Jackson.” Psmith looked down and flicked a blade of grass from the front of his shirt.

“Bit hot in there,” Mike went on. “Crowded.”

Psmith looked at him.

“Fancy a trip to the village instead?” Mike said. “And then perhaps, a tree by the river.”

“Indeed, it seems the only plan,” Psmith said, treating him to the same smile he’d felled Carter with earlier, and garnering the same sort of effect in Mike, minus the whimper. “I’m sure we shall find a means there of restoring our tissues.”

“I’ve a means or two in mind, if you don’t,” Mike said cheerfully.

“Lead on then, Comrade Jackson, before my fragile health fails entirely,” Psmith said.

Mike led.


End file.
